 Chapter 1 of The Warden. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jessica Louise. The Warden by Anthony Trolov. Chapter 1. Hyrum's Hospital. The Reverend Septimus Harding was, a few years since, a benefaced clergyman residing in the cathedral town of... let's call it Barchester. Were we to name Wells or Salisbury, Exeter, Haerford or Gloucester, it might be presumed that something personal was intended, and as this tale will refer mainly to the cathedral dignitaries of the town in question, we are anxious that no personality may be suspected. Let us presume that Barchester is a quiet town in the west of England, more remarkable for the beauty of its cathedral and the antiquity of its monuments than for any commercial prosperity, that the west end of Barchester is the cathedral close, and that the aristocracy of Barchester are the bishop, dean and canons with their respective wives and daughters. Early in life, Mr. Harding found himself located at Barchester. A fine voice and a taste for sacred music had decided the position in which he was to exercise his calling, and for many years he performed the easy but not highly paid duties of a minor canon. At the age of forty, a small living in the close vicinity of the town increased both his work and his income, and at the age of fifty he became pre-center of the cathedral. Mr. Harding had married early in life and was the father of two daughters. The eldest, Susan, was born soon after his marriage, the other, Eleanor, not till ten years later. At the time at which we introduced him to our readers he was living as pre-center at Barchester with his youngest daughter, then twenty-four years of age, having been many years a widower, and having married his eldest daughter to a son of the bishop a very short time before his installation to the office of pre-center. Scandal at Barchester affirmed that had it not been for the beauty of his daughter Mr. Harding would have remained a minor canon, but here probably Scandal lied, as she so often does, for even as a minor canon no one had been more popular among his reverend brethren in the close than Mr. Harding, and Scandal, before she had reprobated Mr. Harding for being made pre-center by his friend the bishop, had loudly blamed the bishop for having so long omitted to do something for his friend Mr. Harding. Be this as it may, Susan Harding, some twelve years since, had married the reverend Dr. Theophilus Grantley, son of the bishop, Archdeacon of Barchester, and Rector of Plumstead Episcopy, and her father became, a few months later, pre-center of Barchester Cathedral, that office being, as is not unusual, in the bishop's gift. Now there are peculiar circumstances connected with the pre-centorship which must be explained. In the year 1434, there died at Barchester one John Hyrum, who had made money in the town as a wool stapler, and in his will he left the house in which he died, and certain meadows and closes near the town, still called Hyrum's butts and Hyrum's patch, for the support of twelve superannuated wool carters, all of whom should have been born in bread and spent their days in Barchester. He also appointed that an alms house should be built for their abode, with a fitting residence for a warden, which warden was also to receive a certain sum annually out of the rents of the said butts and patches. He more over-willed, having had a soul alive to harmony, that the pre-center of the cathedral should have the option of being also warden of the alms houses, if the bishop in each case approved. From that day to this, the charity had gone on and prospered, at least the charity had gone on, and the estates had prospered. Wool carding in Barchester there was no longer any, so the bishop, Dean, and warden, who took it in turn to put in the old men, generally appointed some hangers on of their own, worn-out gardeners, decrepit grave diggers, or octogenarian sextons, who thankfully received a comfortable lodging and one shilling in four pence a day, such being the stipend to which, under the will of John Hyrum, they were declared to be entitled. Formerly indeed, that is, till within some fifty years of the present time, they received but six pence a day, and their breakfast and dinner was found them at a common table by the warden, such an arrangement being in stricter conformity with the absolute wording of old Hyrum's will. This was thought to be inconvenient and to suit the tastes of neither warden nor beadsman, and the daily one shilling in four pence was substituted with the common consent of all parties, including the bishop and the corporation of Barchester. Such was the condition of Hyrum's twelve old men when Mr. Harding was appointed warden. But if they may be considered as well to do in the world according to their condition, the happy warden was much more so. The patches and butts, which in John Hyrum's time produced hay or fed cows, were now covered with rows of houses. The value of the property had gradually increased from year to year and century to century, and was now presumed by those who knew anything about it to bring in a very nice income, and by some who knew nothing about it to have increased to an almost fabulous extent. The property was farmed by a gentleman in Barchester who also acted as the bishop steward, a man whose father and grandfather had been stewards to the bishop of Barchester and farmers of John Hyrum's estate. The Chadwicks had earned a good name in Barchester. They had lived respected by bishops, deans, cannons, and precenters. They had been buried in the precincts of the cathedral. They had never been known as griping hard men, but had always lived comfortably, maintained a good house, and held a high position in Barchester's society. The present Mr. Chadwick was a worthy scion of a worthy stock, and the tenants, living on the butts and patches, as well as those on the wide episcopal domains of the sea, were well pleased to have to do with so worthy and liberal a steward. For many, many years, records hardly tell how many, probably from the time when Hyrum's wishes had first been fully carried out, the proceeds of the estate had been paid by the steward or farmer to the warden, and by him divided among the beadsmen, after which division he paid himself such sums as became his due. Times had been when the poor warden got nothing but his bare house, for the patches had been subject to floods, and the land of Barchester butts was said to be unproductive, and in these hard times the warden was hardly able to make out the daily dole for his twelve dependents. But by degrees things mended, the patches were drained, and cottages began to rise upon the butts, and the wardens, with fairness enough, repaid themselves for the evil days gone by. In bad times the poor men had had their due, and therefore in good times they could expect no more. In this manner the income of the warden had increased, the picturesque house attached to the hospital had been enlarged and adorned, and the office had become one of the most coveted of the snug clerical sinicures attached to our church. It was now wholly in the bishop's gift, and though the dean and chapter in former days made a stand on the subject, they had thought it more conducive to their honor to have a rich pre-center appointed by the bishop than a poor one appointed by themselves. The stipend of the pre-center of Barchester was eighty pounds a year. The income arising from the wardenship of the hospital was eight hundred, besides the value of the house. Murmurs, very slight murmurs, had been heard in Barchester. Few indeed and far between, that the proceeds of John Hyrum's property had not been fairly divided, but they can hardly be said to have been of such a nature as to have caused uneasiness to anyone. Still the thing had been whispered, and Mr. Harding had heard it. Such was his character in Barchester, so universal was his popularity, that the very fact of his appointment would have quieted louder whispers than those which had been heard. But Mr. Harding was an open-handed, just-minded man, and feeling that there might be truth in what had been said, he had on his installment declared his intention of adding tuppence a day to each man's pittance, making a sum of sixty-two pounds, eleven shillings, and fourpence, which he was to pay out of his own pocket. In doing so, however, he distinctly and repeatedly observed to the men that though he promised for himself, he could not promise for his successors, and that the extra tuppence could only be looked on as a gift from himself and not from the trust. The beadsmen, however, were most of them older than Mr. Harding and were quite satisfied with the security on which their extra income was based. The munificence on the part of Mr. Harding had not been unopposed. Mr. Chadwick had mildly but seriously dissuaded him from it, and his strong-minded son-in-law the Archdeacon, the man of whom alone Mr. Harding stood in awe, had urgently, nay vehemently, opposed so in politic a concession. But the warden had made known his intention to the hospital before the Archdeacon had been able to interfere, and the deed was done. Hiram's hospital, as the retreat is called, is a picturesque building enough and shows the correct taste with which the ecclesiastical architects of those days were imbued. It stands on the banks of the Little River, which flows nearly round the cathedral close, being on the side furthest from the town. The London Road crosses the river by a pretty one-arched bridge, and looking from this bridge, the stranger will see the windows of the old men's rooms, each pair of windows separated by a small buttress. A broad gravel walk runs between the building and the river, which is always trim and cared for, and at the end of the walk, under the parapet of the approach to the bridge, is a large and well-worn seat, on which, in mild weather, three or four of Hiram's beadsmen are sure to be seen seated. Beyond this row of buttresses, and further from the bridge, and also further from the water, which here suddenly bends, are the pretty Oreo windows of Mr. Harding's house, and his well-mown lawn. The entrance to the hospital is from the London Road, and is made through a ponderous gateway under a heavy stone arch. Unnecessary one would suppose at any time for the protection of twelve old men, but greatly conducive to the good appearance of Hiram's charity. On passing through this portal, never close to anyone from 6 a.m. till 10 p.m., and never open afterwards, except on application to a huge, intricately hung medieval bell, the handle of which no uninitiated intruder can possibly find. The six doors of the old men's abodes are seen, and beyond them is a slight iron screen, through which the more happy portion of the barchester elite pass into the Elysium of Mr. Harding's dwelling. Mr. Harding is a small man, now verging on sixty years, but bearing few of the signs of age. His hair is rather grizzled, though not grey. His eye is very mild, but clear and bright, though the double glasses, which are held swinging from his hand, when fixed upon his nose, show that time has told upon his sight. His hands are delicately white, and both hands and feet are small. He always wears a black frock coat, black knee breeches, and black gaiters, and somewhat scandalizes some of his more hyperclerical brethren by a black neck handkerchief. Mr. Harding's warmest admirers cannot say that he was ever an industrious man. The circumstances of his life had not called on him to be so, and yet he can hardly be called an idler. Since his appointment to his precentorship, he has published, with all possible additions of vellum, topography, and gilding, a collection of our ancient church music, with some correct dissertations on Purcell, Crotch, and Nears. He has greatly improved the choir of barchester, which under his dominion now rivals that of any cathedral in England. He has taken something more than his fair share in the cathedral services, and has played the vellum cello daily to such audiences as he could collect, or faute de mure to no audience at all. We must mention one other peculiarity of Mr. Harding. As we have before stated, he has an income of eight hundred a year, and has no family but his one daughter, and yet he has never quite at ease in money matters. The vellum and gilding of Harding's church music cost more than anyone knows, except the author, the publisher, and the reverend Theophilus Grantley, who allows none of his father-in-law's extravagances to escape him. Then he is generous to his daughter, for whose service he keeps a small carriage and a pair of ponies. He is indeed generous to all, but especially to the twelve old men who are in a peculiar manner under his care. No doubt with such an income Mr. Harding should be above the world as the saying is. But at any rate, he is not above Archdeacon Theophilus Grantley, for he is always more or less in debt to his son-in-law, who has, to a certain extent, assumed the arrangement of the presenter's pecuniary affairs. End of chapter 1 Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota Chapter 2 of The Warden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jessica Louise The Warden by Anthony Trollop Chapter 2, The Barchester Reformer Mr. Harding has been now pre-center of Barchester for ten years, and alas the murmurs respecting the proceeds of Hiram's estate are again becoming audible. It is not that anyone begrudges to Mr. Harding the income which he enjoys and the comfortable place which so well becomes him. But such matters have begun to be talked of in various parts of England. Eager-pushing politicians have asserted in the House of Commons with very telling indignation that the grasping priests of the Church of England are gorged with the wealth which the charity of former times has left for the solace of the aged, or the education of the young. The well-known case of the Hospital of St. Cross has even come before the law courts of the country and the struggles of Mr. Whitson at Rochester have met with sympathy and support. Men are beginning to say that these things must be looked into. Mr. Harding, whose conscience in the matter is clear and who has never felt that he had received a pound from Hiram's will to which he was not entitled, has naturally taken the part of the Church in talking over these matters with his friend, the Bishop, and his son-in-law, the Archdeacon. The Archdeacon indeed, Dr. Grantley, has been somewhat loud in the matter. He is a personal friend of the dignitaries of the Rochester Chapter and has written letters in the public press on the subject of that turbulent Dr. Whitson, which his admirers think must well nice at the question at rest. It is also known at Oxford that he is the author of the pamphlet Sesodos on the subject of the Earl of Guildford and St. Cross, in which it is so clearly argued that the manners of the present times do not admit of a literal adhesion to the very words of the Founder's will, but that the interests of the Church for which the Founder was so deeply concerned are best consulted in enabling its bishops to reward those shining lights whose services have been most signally serviceable to Christianity. In answer to this, it is asserted that Henry de Blas, Founder of St. Cross, was not greatly interested in the welfare of the Reformed Church and that the Masters of St. Cross for many years passed cannot be called shining lights in the service of Christianity. It is, however, stoutly maintained and no doubt felt by all the Archdeacon's friends that his logic is conclusive and has not, in fact, been answered. With such a tower of strength to back both his arguments and his conscience, it may be imagined that Mr. Harding has never felt any compunction as to receiving his quarterly sum of 200 pounds. Indeed, the subject has never presented itself to his mind in that shape. He has talked not unfrequently and heard very much about the wills of old Founders and the incomes arising from their estates during the last year or two. He did even, at one moment, feel a doubt, since expelled by his son-in-law's logic as to whether Lord Guildford was clearly entitled to receive so enormous an income as he does from the revenues of St. Cross. But that he himself was overpaid with his modest 800 pounds, he who, out of that, voluntarily gave up 62 pounds, 11 shillings and 4 pence a year to his 12-old neighbors, he who, for the money, does his precenters' work as no precenter has done it before, since Barchester Cathedral was built, such an idea has never sullied his quiet or disturbed his conscience. Nevertheless, Mr. Harding is becoming uneasy at the rumor which he knows to prevail in Barchester on the subject. He is aware that, at any rate, two of his old men have been heard to say that if everyone had his own, they might each have their 100 pounds a year and live like gentlemen instead of a beggarly one shilling in 6 pence a day, and that they had slender cause to be thankful for a miserable dole of tuppence when Mr. Harding and Mr. Chadwick between them ran away with thousands of pounds which good old John Hyrum never intended for the like of them. It is the ingratitude of this which stings Mr. Harding. One of this discontented pair, Abel Handy, was put into the hospital by himself. He had bent a stone mason in Barchester and had broken his thigh by a fall from a scaffolding while employed about the cathedral, and Mr. Harding had given him the first vacancy in the hospital after the occurrence, although Dr. Grantley had been very anxious to put into it an insufferable clerk of his at Plumstead Episcopie who had lost all his teeth and whom the Archdeacon hardly knew how to get rid of by other means. Dr. Grantley had not forgotten to remind Mr. Harding how well satisfied with his one in six pence a day old Joe Mudders would have been and how injudicious it was on the part of Mr. Harding to allow a radical from the town to get into the concern. Probably Dr. Grantley forgot at the moment that the charity was intended for a broken down journeyman of Barchester. There is living at Barchester a young man, a surgeon named John Bold both Mr. Harding and Dr. Grantley are well aware that to him is owing the pestilent rebellious feeling which has shown itself in the hospital. Yes, and the renewal too of that disagreeable talk about Hyrum's estates which is now again prevalent in Barchester. Nevertheless, Mr. Harding and Mr. Bold are acquainted with each other. We may say our friends considering the great disparity in their years. Dr. Grantley however has a holy horror of the impious demagogue as on one occasion he called Bold when speaking of him to the precenter. And being a more prudent, far-seeing man than Mr. Harding and possessed of a stronger head he already perceives that this John Bold will work great trouble in Barchester. He considers that he is to be regarded as an enemy and thinks that he should not be admitted into the camp on anything like friendly terms. As John Bold will occupy much of our attention we must endeavor to explain who he is and why he takes the part of John Hyrum's beadsman. John Bold is a young surgeon who passed many of his boyish years at Barchester. His father was a physician in the City of London where he made a moderate fortune which he invested in houses in that city. The dragon of Wantley Inn and Posting House belong to him also foreshops in the High Street and a moiety of the new row of gentile villas so-called in the advertisements built outside the town just beyond Hyrum's hospital. To one of these Dr. Bold retired to spend the evening of his life and to die. And here his son John spent his holidays and afterwards his Christmas vacation when he went from school to study surgery in the London hospitals. Just as John Bold was entitled to write himself surgeon and apothecary old Dr. Bold died leaving his Barchester property to his son and a certain sum in the three percents to his daughter Mary who is some four or five years older than her brother. John Bold determined to settle himself at Barchester and look after his own property as well as the bones and bodies of such of his neighbors as would call upon him for assistance in their troubles. He therefore put up a large brass plate with John Bold surgeon on it to the great disgust of the nine practitioners who were already trying to get a living out of the bishop, dean and cannons and began housekeeping with the aid of his sister. At this time he was not more than 24 years old and though he has now been three years in Barchester we have not heard that he has done much harm to the nine worthy practitioners. Indeed their dread of him has died away. For in three years he has not taken three fees. Nevertheless John Bold is a clever man and would with practice be a clever surgeon but he has got quite into another line of life Having enough to live on he has not been forced to work for bread. He has declined to subject himself to what he calls the drudgery of the profession by which I believe he means the general work of a practicing surgeon and has found other employment. He frequently binds up the bruises and sets the limbs of such of the poor classes as profess his way of thinking but this he does for love. Now I will not say that the Archdeacon is strictly correct in stigmatizing John Bold as a demagogue Hardly know how extreme must be a man's opinions before he can be justly so called but Bold is a strong reformer. His passion is the reform of all abuses. State abuses, church abuses, corporation abuses. He has got himself elected a town counselor of Barchester and has so worried three consecutive mayors that it became somewhat difficult to find a fourth. Abuses in medical practice and general abuses in the world at large. Bold is thoroughly sincere in his patriotic endeavors to mend mankind and there is something to be admired in the energy with which he devotes himself to remedying evil and stopping injustice. But I fear that he is too much imbued with the idea that he has a special mission for reforming. It would be well if one so young had a little more diffidence himself and more trust in the honest purposes of others. If he could be brought to believe that old customs need not necessarily be evil and that changes may possibly be dangerous. But no Bold has all the ardor and all the self-assurance of a dentin and he hurls his anathemas against time-honored practices with the violence of a French Jacobin. No wonder that Dr. Grantley should regard Bold as a firebrand falling as he has done almost in the center of the quiet ancient close of Barchester Cathedral. Dr. Grantley would have him avoided as the plague but the old doctor and Mr. Harding were fast friends. Young Johnny Bold used to play as a boy on Mr. Harding's lawn. He has many a time won the precenters heart by listening with a rapt attention to his sacred strains and since those days to tell the truth at once he has nearly won another heart within the same walls. Eleanor Harding has not plighted her trough to John Bold nor has she perhaps owned to herself how dear to her the young reformer is but she cannot endure that anyone should speak harshly of him. She does not dare to defend him when her brother-in-law is so loud against him for she, like her father, is somewhat afraid of Dr. Grantley but she is beginning greatly to dislike the Archdeacon. She persuades her father that it would be both unjust and injudicious to banish his young friend because of his politics. She cares little to go to houses where she will not meet him and in fact she is in love. Nor is there any good reason why Eleanor Harding should not love John Bold. He has all those qualities which are likely to touch a girl's heart. He is brave, eager and amusing, well-made and good-looking, young and enterprising. His character is in all respects good. He has sufficient income to support a wife. He is her father's friend and above all he is in love with her. Then why should not Eleanor Harding be attached to John Bold? Dr. Grantley, who has as many eyes as Argus and has long seen how the wind blows in that direction thinks there are various strong reasons why this should not be so. He has not thought it wise as yet to speak to his father-in-law on the subject for he knows how foolishly indulgent is Mr. Harding in everything that concerns his daughter. But he has discussed the matter with his all-trusted helpmate within that sacred recess formed by the clerical bed-curtains at Plumstead Episcopie. How much sweet solace, how much valued counsel has our Archdeacon received within that sainted enclosure. Tis there alone that he unbends and comes down from his high church pedestal to the level of a mortal man. In the world Dr. Grantley never lays aside that demeanor which so well becomes him. He has all the dignity of an ancient saint with the sleekness of a modern bishop. He is always the same. He is always the Archdeacon. Unlike Homer, he never nods. Even with his father-in-law, even with the bishop and dean, he maintains that sonorous tone and lofty deportment which strikes awe into the young hearts of Barchester and absolutely cows the whole parish of Plumstead Episcopie. Tis only when he has exchanged that ever-new shovel hat for a tasseled nightcap in those shining black habiliments for his accustomed robe d'ennui that Dr. Grantley talks and looks and thinks like an ordinary man. Many of us have often thought how severe a trial of faith must this be to the wives of our great church dignitaries. To us these men are personifications of Saint Paul. Their very gait is a speaking sermon. Their clean and somber apparel exacts from us faith and submission and the cardinal virtues seem to hover round their sacred hats. A dean or archbishop in the garb of his order is sure of our reverence and a well-got-up bishop fills our very souls with awe. But how can this feeling be perpetuated in the bosoms of those who see the bishops without their aprons and the archdeacons even in a lower state of disabil? Do we not all know some reverent, all but sacred personage before whom our tongue ceases to be loud and our step to be elastic? But were we once to see him stretch himself beneath the bedclothes, yawn widely and bury his face upon his pillow, we could chatter before him as glibly as before a doctor or a lawyer. For some such cause doubtless it arose that our archdeacon listened to the counsels of his wife, though he considered himself entitled to give counsel to every other being whom he met. My dear, he said, as he adjusted the copious folds of his nightcap. There was that John bold at your father's again today. I must say your father is very imprudent. He is imprudent. He always was, replied Mrs. Grantley speaking from under the comfortable bedclothes. There's nothing new in that. No, my dear, there's nothing new. I know that. But at the present juncture of affairs such imprudence is... I'll tell you what, my dear, if he does not take care what he's about, John bold will be off with Eleanor. I think he will, whether Papa takes care or no. And why not? Why not? Almost screamed the archdeacon giving so rough a pull at his nightcap as almost to bring it over his nose. Why not? That pestilent interfering upstart, John bold, the most vulgar young person I ever met. Do you know that he is meddling with your father's affairs in a most uncalled for most... And being at a loss for an epithet sufficiently injurious, he finished his expressions of horror by muttering, Good heavens. In a manner that had been found very efficacious in clerical meetings of the diocese, he must for the moment have forgotten where he was. As to his vulgarity, archdeacon, Mrs. Grantley had never assumed a more familiar term than this in addressing her husband. I don't agree with you. Not that I like Mr. Bold. It was a great deal too conceited for me, but then Eleanor does, and it would be the best thing in the world for Papa if they were to marry. Bold would never trouble himself about Hiram's hospital if he were Papa's son-in-law. And the lady turned herself round under the bedclothes in a manner to which the doctor was well accustomed, and which told him, as plainly as words, that as far as she was concerned, the subject was over for that night. Good heavens! murmured the doctor again. He was evidently much put beside himself. Dr. Grantley is by no means a bad man. He is exactly the man which such an education as his was most likely to form, his intellect being sufficient for such a place in the world, but not sufficient to put him in advance of it. He performs with a rigid constancy, such of the duties of a parish clergyman as are to his thinking above the sphere of his curate, but it is as an archdeacon that he shines. We believe as a general rule that either a bishop or his archdeacons have sinecures, where a bishop works archdeacons have but little to do and vice versa. In the diocese of the barchester, the archdeacon of barchester does the work. In that capacity he is diligent, authoritative, and as his friends particularly boast, judicious. His great fault is an overbearing assurance of the virtues and claims of his order, and his great foible is an equally strong confidence in the dignity of his own manner and the eloquence of his own words. He is a moral man, believing the precepts which he teaches, and believing also that he acts up to them, though we cannot say that he would give his coat to the man who took his cloak, or that he is prepared to forgive his brother even seven times. He is severe enough in exacting his dues, considering that any laxity in this respect would endanger the security of the church. And could he have his way, he would consign to darkness and perdition, not only every individual reformer, but every committee and every commission that would even dare to ask a question respecting the appropriation of church revenues. They are church revenues, the laity admit it. Surely the church is able to administer her own revenues. It was thus he was accustomed to argue when the sacrilegious doings of Lord John Russell and others were discussed either at Barchester or at Oxford. It was no wonder that Dr. Grantley did not like John Bold, and that his wife's suggestion that he should become closely connected with such a man dismayed him. To give him his due, the Archdeacon never wanted courage. He was quite willing to meet his enemy on any field and with any weapon. He had that idea in his own arguments that he felt sure of success. Could he only be sure of a fair fight on the part of his adversary? He had no idea that John Bold could really prove that the income of the hospital was malappropriated. Why, then, should peace be sought for on such base terms? What, bribe an unbelieving enemy of the church with the sister-in-law of one dignitary and the daughter of another, with a young lady whose connections with the diocese and the chapter of Barchester were so close as to give her an undeniable claim to a husband endowed with some of its sacred wealth? When Dr. Grantley talks of unbelieving enemies, he does not mean to imply want of belief in the doctrines of the church, but an equally dangerous skepticism as to its purity in money matters. Mrs. Grantley is not usually deaf to the claims of the high order to which she belongs. She and her husband rarely disagree as to the tone with which the church should be defended. How singular, then, that in such a case as this, she should be willing to succumb. The Archdeacon again murmurs, Good heavens, as he lays himself beside her, but he does so in a voice audible only to himself, and he repeats it till sleep relieves him from deep thought. Mr. Harding himself has seen no reason why his daughter should not love John Bold. He has not been unobservant of her feelings, and perhaps his deepest regret at the part which he fears Bold is about to take regarding the hospital arises from the dread that he may be separated from his daughter, or that she may be separated from the man she loves. He has never spoken to Eleanor about her lover. He is the last man in the world to allude to such a subject unconsulted, even with his own daughter, and had he considered that he had ground to disapprove of Bold, he would have removed her or forbidden him his house. But he saw no such ground. He would probably have preferred a second clerical son-in-law, for Mr. Harding also is attached to his order, and failing in that, he would at any rate have wished that so near a connection should have thought alike with him on church matters. He would not, however, reject the man his daughter loved because he differed on such subjects with himself. Hither to Bold had taken no steps in the matter in any way, annoying to Mr. Harding personally. Some months since, after a severe battle which cost him not a little money, he gained a victory over a certain old turnpike woman in the neighborhood of whose charges another old woman had complained to him. He got the act of parliament relating to the trust, found that his protege had been wrongly taxed, rode through the gate himself paying the toll, then brought an action against the gatekeeper and proved that all people coming up a certain by-lane and going down a certain other by-lane were toll-free. The fame of his success spread widely abroad, and he began to be looked on as the upholder of the rights of the poor of Barchester. Not long after the success, he heard from different quarters that Hiram's beadsmen were treated as poppers, whereas the property to which they were in effect heirs was very large, and he was instigated by the lawyer whom he had employed in the case of the turnpike to call upon Mr. Chadwick for a statement as to the funds of the estate. Bold had often expressed his indignation at the malappropriation of church funds in general, in the hearing of his friend the precenter, but the conversation had never referred to anything at Barchester, and when Finney, the attorney, induced him to interfere with the affairs of the hospital, it was against Mr. Chadwick that his efforts were to be directed. Bold soon found that if he interfered with Mr. Chadwick as steward, he must also interfere with Mr. Harding as warden, and though he regretted the situation in which this would place him, he was not the man to flinch from his undertaking from personal motives. As soon as he had determined to take the matter in hand, he said about his work with his usual energy. He got a copy of John Hiram's will, of the wording of which he made himself perfectly master. He ascertained the extent of the property, and as nearly as he could the value of it, and made out a schedule of what he was informed was the present distribution of its income. Armed with these particulars he called on Mr. Chadwick, having given that gentleman notice of his visit, and asked him for a statement of the income and expenditure of the hospital for the last twenty-five years. This was of course refused. Mr. Chadwick alleging that he had no authority for making public the concerns of a property in managing which he was only a paid servant. And who is competent to give you that authority, Mr. Chadwick? asked Bold. Only those who employ me, Mr. Bold, said the steward. And who are those, Mr. Chadwick? demanded Bold. Mr. Chadwick begged to say that if these inquiries were made merely out of curiosity, he must decline answering them. If Mr. Bold had any ulterior proceeding in view, perhaps it would be desirable that any necessary information should be sought for in a professional way by a professional man. Mr. Chadwick's attorneys were Mr. Cox and Cummins of Lincoln's Inn. Mr. Bold took down the address of Cox and Cummins, remarked that the weather was cold for the time of year, and wished Mr. Chadwick good morning. Mr. Chadwick said it was cold for June, and bowed him out. He at once went to his lawyer, Finney. Now Bold was not very fond of his attorney, but as he said, he rarely wanted a man who knew the forms of law and who would do what he was told for his money. He had no idea of putting himself in the hands of a lawyer. He wanted law from a lawyer as he did a coat from a tailor, because he could not make it so well himself and thought Finney the fittest man in Barchester for his purpose. In one respect, at any rate, he was right. Finney was humility itself. Finney advertised an instant letter to Cox and Cummins, mindful of his six and eight pence. Slap at them at once, Mr. Bold, demand categorically and explicitly a full statement of the affairs of the hospital. Suppose I receive Mr. Harding first, suggested Bold. Yes, yes, by all means, said the acquiescing Finney, though perhaps as Mr. Harding is no man of business it may lead to some little difficulties, but perhaps you're right, Mr. Bold, I don't think seeing Mr. Harding can do any harm. Finney saw from the expression of his client's face that he intended to have his own way. End of Chapter 2. Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota. Chapter 3 of The Warden. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jessica Louise. The Warden by Anthony Trollup. Chapter 3. The Bishop of Barchester. Bold at once repaired to the hospital. The day was now far advanced, but he knew that Mr. Harding dined in the summer at four, that Eleanor was accustomed to drive in the evening, and that he might therefore probably find Mr. Harding alone. It was between seven and eight when he reached the slight iron gate leading into the presenter's garden, so as Mr. Chadwick observed the day had been cold for June, the evening was mild and soft and sweet. The little gate was open. As he raised a latch he heard the notes of Mr. Harding's Veal and Cello from the far end of the garden, and advancing before the house and across the lawn he found him playing, and not without an audience. The musician was seated in the garden chair just within the summer house, so as to allow the Veal and Cello which he held between his knees to rest upon the dry stone flooring. Before him stood a rough music desk, on which was open a page of that dear sacred book, that much labored and much loved volume of church music which had cost so many guineas, and around sat and lay and stood and leaned ten of the twelve old men who dwelt with him beneath old John Hiram's roof. The two reformers were not there. I will not say that in their hearts they were conscious of any wrong done or to be done to their mild warden, but latterly they had kept aloof from him, and his music was no longer to their taste. It was amusing to see the positions and eager listening faces of these well-to-do old men. I will not say that they all appreciated the music which they heard, but they were intent on appearing to do so. Pleased at being where they were, they were determined, as far as in them lay, to give pleasure in return, and they were not unsuccessful. It gladdened the Precenter's heart to think that the old beadsman whom he loved so well admired the strains which were to him so full of almost ecstatic joy, and he used to boast that such was the air of the hospital as to make it a precinct especially fit for the worship of Saint Cecilia. Immediately before him on the extreme corner of the bench which ran round the summer house sat one old man with his handkerchiefs smoothly laying upon his knees who did enjoy the moment or acted enjoyment well. He was one on whose large frame many years, for he was over eighty, had made small havoc. He was still an upright, burly, handsome figure with an open, ponderous brow round which clung a few, though very few, thin gray locks. The coarse black gown of the hospital, the breeches and buckled shoes became him well, and as he sat with his hands folded on his staff and his chin resting on his hands he was such a listener as most musicians would be glad to welcome. This man was certainly the pride of the hospital. It had always been the custom that one should be selected as being to some extent in authority over the others, and though Mr. Bunce, for such was his name, and so he was always designated by his inferior brethren, had no greater emoluments than they, he had assumed and well knew how to maintain the dignity of his elevation. The precincter delighted to call him his sub-warden and was not ashamed occasionally when no other guest was there to bid him sit down by the same parlour-fire and drink the full glass of port which was placed near him. Bunce never went without the second glass, but no entreaty ever made him take a third. Well, well, Mr. Harding, you're too good, much too good, he'd always say, as the second glass was filled, but when that was drunk and the half-hour over Bunce stood erect and with a benediction which his patron valued retired to his own abode. He knew the world too well to risk the comfort of such Halcyon moments by prolonging them till they were disagreeable. Mr. Bunce, as may be imagined, was most strongly opposed to innovation. Not even Dr. Grantley had a more holy horror of those who would interfere in the affairs of the hospital. He was every inch a churchman, and though he was not very fond of Dr. Grantley personally, that arose from there not being room in the hospital for two people so much alike as the doctor and himself, rather than from any dissimilarity and feeling. Mr. Bunce was inclined to think that the warden and himself could manage the hospital without further assistance, and that though the bishop was the constitutional visitor and as such entitled to special reverence from all connected with John Hyrum's will, John Hyrum never intended that his affairs should be interfered with by an arch-deacon. At the present moment, however, these cares were off his mind, and he was looking at his warden as though he thought the music heavenly, and the musician hardly less so. As Bold walked silently over the lawn, Mr. Harding did not at first perceive him and continued to draw his bow slowly across the plaintive wires, but he soon found from his audience that some stranger was there, and looking up began to welcome his young friend with frank hospitality. Pray, Mr. Harding, pray, don't let me disturb you, said Bold. You know how fond I am of sacred music. Oh, it's nothing, said the pre-center, shutting up the book and then opening it again as he saw the delightfully imploring look of his old friend Bunce. Oh, Bunce, Bunce, Bunce, I fear that after all thou art but a flatterer. Well, I'll just finish it then. It's a favorite little bit of bishops, and then Mr. Bold will have a stroll and a chat till Eleanor comes in and gives us tea. And so Bold sat down on the soft turf to listen, or rather to think how after such sweet harmony he might best introduce a theme of so much discord to disturb the peace of him who was so ready to welcome him kindly. Bold thought that the performance was soon over, for he felt that he had a somewhat difficult task, and he almost regretted the final leave-taking of the last of the old men, as slow as they were in going through their adieu. Bold's heart was in his mouth as the pre-center made some ordinary but kind remark as to the friendliness of the visit. One evening call, said he, is worth ten in the morning. It's all formality in the morning. Real social talk never begins till after dinner. That's why I dine early, so as to get as much as I can of it. Quite true, Mr. Harding, said the other, but I fear I've reversed the order of things, and I owe you much apology for troubling you on business at such an hour, but it is on business that I have called just now. Mr. Harding looked blank and annoyed. There was something in the tone of the young man's voice which told him that the interview was intended to be disagreeable, and he shrank back at finding his kindly greeting so repulsed. I wish to speak to you about the hospital, continued Bold. Well, well, anything I can tell you, I shall be most happy. It's about the accounts. Then, my dear fellow, I can tell you nothing, for I am as ignorant as a child. All I know is that they pay me eight hundred pounds a year. Go to Chad, when he knows all about the accounts. And now tell me, will poor Mary Jones ever get the use of her limb again? Well, I think she will if she's careful, but Mr. Harding, I hope you won't object to discuss with me what I have to say about the hospital. Mr. Harding gave a deep, long John sigh. He did object, very strongly object, to discuss any such subject with John Bold, but he had not the business tact of Mr. Chadwick and did not know how to relieve himself from the coming evil. He sighed sadly, but made no answer. I have the greatest regard for you, Mr. Harding, continued Bold. The truest respect, the most sincere. Thank you, thank you, Mr. Bold. Interjaculated the pre-center somewhat impatiently. I'm much obliged, but never mind that. I'm as likely to be in the wrong as another man, quite as likely. But Mr. Harding, I must express what I feel, lest you should think there is personal enmity in what I'm going to do. Personal enmity? Going to do why you're not going to cut my throat, nor put me into the ecclesiastical court? Bold tried to laugh, but he couldn't. He was quite an earnest and determined in his course and couldn't make a joke of it. He walked on a while in silence before he recommended his attack, during which Mr. Harding, who had still the bow in his hand, played rapidly on an imaginary veal and cello. I fear there is reason to think that John Hiram's will is not carried out to the letter, Mr. Harding, said the young man at last, and I have been asked to see into it. Very well. I have no objection on earth, and now we need not say another word about it. Only one word more, Mr. Harding. Chadwick has referred me to Cox and Cummins, and I think it my duty to apply to them for some statement about the hospital. In what I do, I may appear to be interfering with you, and I hope you'll forgive me for doing so. Mr. Bold, said the other, stopping and speaking with some solemnity. If you act justly, say nothing in this matter but the truth, and use new, unfair weapons in carrying out your purposes, I shall have nothing to forgive. I presume you think I'm not entitled to the income I receive from the hospital and that others are entitled to it. Whatever some may do, I shall never attribute to you base motives because you hold an opinion opposed to my own and averse to my interests. Pray, do what you consider to be your duty. I can give you no assistance. Neither will I offer you any obstacle. Let me, however, suggest to you that you can in no wise forward your views, nor I mine, by any discussion between us. Who comes Eleanor in the ponies and we'll go into tea. Bold, however, felt that he could not sit down at ease with Mr. Harding and his daughter after what had passed, and therefore excused himself with much awkward apology, and merely raising his hat and bowing as he passed Eleanor in the pony chair, left her in disappointed amazement at his departure. Mr. Harding's demeanor certainly impressed Bold with a full conviction that the warden felt that he stood on strong grounds and almost made him think that he was about to interfere without due warrant in the private affairs of a just and honorable man, but Mr. Harding himself was anything but satisfied with his own view of the case. In the first place, he wished for Eleanor's sake to think well of Bold and to like him, and yet he could not but feel disgusted at the arrogance of his conduct. What right had he to say that John Hyrum's will was not fairly carried out? But then the question would arise within his heart. Was that will fairly acted on? Did John Hyrum mean that the warden of his hospital should receive considerably more out of the legacy than all the twelve old men together for whose behoof the hospital was built? Could it be possible that John Bold was right, and that the reverent warden of the hospital had been for the last ten years and more the unjust recipient of an income legally and equitably belonging to others? What if it should be proved before the light of day that he, whose life had been so happy, so quiet, so respected, had absorbed eight thousand pounds to which he had no title, and which he could never repay? I do not say that he feared that such was really the case, but the first shade of doubt now fell across his mind, and from this evening, for many a long, long day, our good, kind, loving warden was neither happy nor at ease. Thoughts of this kind, these first moments of such misery, oppressed Mr. Harding as he sat sipping his tea, absent and ill at ease. Poor Eleanor felt all was not right, but her ideas as to the cause of the evening's discomfort did not go beyond her lover, and his sudden and uncivil departure. She thought there must have been some quarrel between Bold and her father, and she was half angry with both, though she did not attempt to explain to herself why she was so. Mr. Harding thought long and deeply over these things, both before he went to bed and after it as he lay awake, questioning within himself the validity of his claim to the income which he enjoyed. It seemed clear at any rate that however unfortunate he might be at having been placed in such a position, no one could say that he ought either to have refused the appointment first or to have rejected the income afterwards. All the world, meaning the ecclesiastical world as confined to the English church, knew that the wardenship of the Barchester Hospital was a snug sinecure, but no one had ever been blamed for accepting it. To how much blame, however, would he have been open had he rejected it? How mad would he have been thought had he declared, when the situation was vacant and offered to him, that he had scruples as to receiving eight hundred pounds a year from John Hiram's property, and that he had rather some stranger should possess it? How would Dr. Grantley have shaken his wise head and have consulted with his friends in the closest to some decent retreat for the coming insanity of the poor minor canon? If he was right in accepting the place, it was clear to him also that he would be wrong in rejecting any part of the income attached to it. The patronage was a valuable appendage of the bishopric, and surely it would not be his duty to lessen the value of that preferment which had been bestowed on himself. Surely he was bound to stand by his order. But somehow these arguments, though they seemed logical, were not satisfactory. Was John Hiram's will fairly carried out? That was the true question, and if not, was it not his special duty to see that this was done? His special duty, whatever injury it might do to his order, however ill such duty might be received by his patron and his friends. At the idea of his friends, his mind turned unhappily to his son-in-law. He knew well how strongly he would be supported by Dr. Grantley if he could bring himself to put his case into the Archdeacon's hands and to allow him to fight the battle. But he knew also that he would find no sympathy there for his doubts, no friendly feeling, no inward comfort. Dr. Grantley would be ready enough to take up his cudgel against all comers on behalf of the church militant, but he would do so on the distasteful ground of the church's infallibility. Such a contest would give no comfort to Mr. Harding Stout's. He was not so anxious to prove himself right as to be so. I've said before that Dr. Grantley was the working man of the diocese and that his father the bishop was somewhat inclined to an idle life. So it was, but the bishop, though he had never been an active man, was one whose qualities had rendered him dear to all who knew him. He was the very opposite to his son. He was a bland and kind old man, opposed by every feeling to authoritative demonstrations and episcopal ostentation. It was perhaps well for him in his situation that his son had early in life been able to do that which he could not well do when he was younger and which he could not have done at all now that he was over seventy. The bishop knew how to entertain the clergy of his diocese, to talk easy small talk with the rector's wives and put curates at their ease. But it required the strong hand of the archdeacon to deal with such as were refractory either in their doctrines or their lives. The bishop and Mr. Harding loved each other warmly. They had grown old together and had together spent many, many years in clerical pursuits and clerical conversation. When one of them was a bishop and the other only a minor canon, they were even then much together. But since their children had married and Mr. Harding had become warden and pre-center, they were all in all to each other. I will not say that they managed the diocese between them, but they spent much time in discussing the man who did and informing little plans to mitigate his wrath against church delinquents and soften his aspirations for church dominion. Mr. Harding determined to open his mind and confess his doubts to his old friend and to him he went on the morning after John Bold's uncourteous visit. Up to this period, no rumor of these cruel proceedings against the hospital had reached the bishop's ears. He had doubtless heard that men existed who questioned his right to present a sinecure of 800 pounds a year as he had heard from time to time of some special immorality or disgraceful disturbance in the usually decent and quiet city of Barchester. But all he did and all he was called on to do on such occasions was to shake his head and to beg his son, the great dictator, to see that no harm happened to the church. It was a long story that Mr. Harding had to tell before he made the bishop comprehend his own view of the case, but we need not follow him through the tale. At first the bishop counseled but one step, recommended but one remedy, had but one medicine and his whole pharmacopia strong enough to touch so grave a disorder. He prescribed the Archdeacon. Refer him to the Archdeacon, he repeated as Mr. Harding spoke of Bold and his visit, the Archdeacon will set you quite right about that, he kindly said, when his friend spoke with hesitation on the justness of his cause. No man has got up all that so well as the Archdeacon. But the dose, though large, failed to quiet the patient, indeed it almost produced nausea. But Bishop, said he, did you ever read John Hiram's will? The bishop thought probably he had, thirty-five years ago when first instituted to his sea, but could not state positively. However he very well knew that he had the absolute right to present to the wardenship and that the income of the warden had been regularly settled. But Bishop, the question is, who has the power to settle it? If, as this young man says, the will provides that the proceeds of the property are to be divided into shares, who has the power to alter these provisions? The bishop had an indistinct idea that they altered themselves by the lapse of years, that a kind of ecclesiastical statute of limitations barred the rights of the twelve beadsmen to any increase of income arising from the increased value of property. He said something about tradition, more of the many learned men who by their practice had confirmed the present arrangement, then went at some length into the propriety of maintaining the due difference in rank and income between a benefaced clergyman and certain poor old men who were dependent on charity, and concluded his argument by another reference to the Archdeacon. The pre-center sat thoughtfully gazing at the fire and listening to the good-natured reasoning of his friend. What the bishop said had a sort of comfort in it, but it was not a sustaining comfort. It made Mr. Harding feel that many others, indeed all others of his own order, would think him right, but it failed to prove to him that he truly was so. Bishop said he at last after both had sat silent for a while. I should deceive you and myself too if I did not tell you that I am very unhappy about this. Suppose that I cannot bring myself to agree with Dr. Grantley, that I find after inquiry that the young man is right and that I am wrong. What then? The two old men were sitting near each other, so near that the bishop was able to lay his hand upon the other's knee, and he did so with the gentle pressure. Mr. Harding well knew what that pressure meant. The bishop had no further argument to adduce. He could not fight for the cause as his son would do. He could not prove all the pre-center's doubts to be groundless, but he could sympathize with his friend, and he did so. And Mr. Harding felt that he had received that for which he came. There was another period of silence after which the bishop asked, with a degree of irritable energy, very unusual with him, whether this pestilent intruder, meaning John Bold, had any friends in Barchester. Mr. Harding had fully made up his mind to tell the bishop everything, to speak of his daughter's love as well as his own troubles, to talk of John Bold in his double capacity of future son-in-law and present enemy, and though he felt it to be sufficiently disagreeable, now was his time to do it. He is very intimate at my own house, Bishop. The bishop stared. He was not so far gone in orthodoxy and church militancy as his son, but still he could not bring himself to understand how so declared an enemy of the establishment could be admitted on terms of intimacy into the house, not only of so firm a pillar as Mr. Harding, but one so much injured as the warden of the hospital. Indeed, I like Mr. Bold much personally, continued the disinterested victim, and to tell you the truth. He hesitated as he brought out the dreadful tidings. I have sometimes thought it not improbable that he would be my second son-in-law. The bishop did not whistle. We believe that they lose the power of doing so on being consecrated, and that in these days one might as easily meet a corrupt judge as a whistling bishop. But he looked as though he would have done so, but for his apron. What a brother-in-law for the Archdeacon! What an alliance for barchester clothes! What a connection for even the Episcopal Palace! The bishop, in his simple mind, felt no doubt that John Bold, had he so much power, would shut up all cathedrals and probably all parish churches, distribute all ties among Methodists, Baptists, and other savage tribes, utterly annihilate the sacred bench and make shovel hats and lawn sleeves as illegal as cowls, sandals, and sackcloth. Here was a nice man to be initiated into the comfortable arcana of ecclesiastical snuggeries, one who doubted the integrity of Parsons and probably disbelieved the Trinity. Mr. Harding's saw what an effect his communication had made and almost repented the openness of his disclosure. He however did what he could to moderate the grief of his friend and patron. I do not say there's any engagement between them. Had there been, Eleanor would have told me. I know her well enough to be assured that she would have done so. But I see that they're fond of each other and as a man and a father, I have had no objection to urge against their intimacy. But Mr. Harding, said the bishop, how are you to oppose him if he is your son-in-law? I don't mean to oppose him. Let's see who opposes me. If anything is to be done in defense, I suppose Chadwick will do it, I suppose. Oh, the Archdeacon will see to that. Were the young man twice his brother-in-law, the Archdeacon will never be deterred from doing what he feels to be right. Mr. Harding reminded the bishop that the Archdeacon and the reformer were not yet brothers and very probably never would be. Exacted from him a promise that Eleanor's name should not be mentioned in any discussion between the father-bishop and son-archdeacon respecting the hospital. And then took his departure, leaving his poor old friend bewildered, amazed, and confounded. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota Chapter 4 of The Warden This LibriBox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jessica Louise, The Warden by Anthony Trollop Chapter 4, Hyrum's Beadsmen The party's most interested in the movement which is about to set barchester by the ears were not the foremost to discuss the merit of the question, as is often the case. But when the bishop, the Archdeacon, the Warden, the steward, and Monsieur Cox and Cummins were all busy with the matter, each in his own way, it is not to be supposed that Hyrum's Beadsmen themselves were altogether passive spectators. Finney, the attorney, had been among them, asking sly questions and raising immoderate hopes, creating a party hostile to the Warden, and establishing a core in the enemy's camp as he figuratively calls it to himself. Poor old men. Whoever may be righted or wronged by this inquiry, they at any rate will assuredly be only injured. To them it can only be an unmixed evil. How can their lot be improved? All their wants are supplied, every comfort is administered, they have warm houses, good clothes, plentiful diet, and rest after a life of labor. And above all, that treasure so inestimable in declining years, a true and kind friend to listen to their sorrows, watch over their sickness, and administer comfort as regards this world and the world to come. John Bold sometimes thinks of this when he is talking loudly of the rights of the Beadsmen, whom he has taken under his protection. But he quiets this suggestion within his breast with the high-sounding name of justice. Fiat giustizia ruat quellum. These old men should, by rights, have one hundred pounds a year instead of one shilling in six pence a day, and the warden should have two hundred or three hundred pounds instead of eight hundred pounds. What is unjust must be wrong and what is wrong should be righted, and if he declined the task, who else would do it? Each one of you is clearly entitled to one hundred pounds a year by common law. Such had been the important whisper made by Finney into the ears of Abel Handy and by him retailed to his eleven brethren. Too much must not be expected from the flesh and blood even of John Hiram's Beadsmen and the positive promise of one hundred a year to each of the twelve old men had its way with most of them. The great Bunce was not to be wild away and was upheld in his orthodoxy by two adherents. Abel Handy, who was the leader of the aspirants after wealth, had alas a stronger following. No less than five of the twelve soon believed that his views were just making with their leader a moiety of the hospital. The other three, volatile, unstable minds, vacillated between the two chieftains, now led away by the hope of gold, now anxious to propitiate the powers that still existed. It had been proposed to address a petition to the bishop as visitor, praying his lordship to see justice done to the legal recipients of John Hiram's charity and to send copies of this petition and of the reply it would elicit to all the leading London papers and thereby to obtain notoriety for the subject. This it was thought would pave the way for arterial legal proceedings. It would have been a great thing to have had the signatures and marks of all the twelve injured legates, but this was impossible. Bunce would have cut his hand off sooner than have signed it. It was then suggested by Finney that if even eleven could be induced to sanction the document, the one obstinate recusant might have been represented as unfit to judge on such a question, in fact as being non-kopos mentis and the petition would have been taken as representing the feeling of the men. But this could not be done. Bunce's friends were as firm as himself and yet only six crosses adorned the document. It was the more provoking, as Bunce himself could write his name legibly, and one of those three doubting souls had for years bolstered of like power and possessed indeed a Bible in which he was proud to show his name written by himself some thirty years ago. Job's Sculpet. But it was thought that Job's Sculpet, having forgotten his scholarship, on that account recoiled from the petition and that the other doubters would follow as he led them. A petition signed by half the hospital would have but poor effect. It was in Sculpet's room that the petition was now lying, waiting such additional signatures as Abel Handy by his eloquence could obtain for it. The six marks it bore were duly attested to us. Abel Handy, his mark. Greg Moody, his mark. Matthew Sprinks, his mark, etc. And places were duly designated in pencil for those brethren who were now expected to join. For Sculpet alone was left a spot on which his genuine signature might be written in fair clerk-like style. Handy had brought in the document and spread it out on the small deal-table, and was now standing by it persuasive and eager. Moody had followed with an ink-horn, carefully left behind by Finney, and Sprinks bore loft as though it were a sword, a well-worn ink-black pen, which from time to time he endeavored to thrust into Sculpet's unwilling hand. With the learned man were his two abetters in indecision, William Gazy and Jonathan Crumple. If ever the petition were to be forwarded, now was the time, so said Mr. Finney, and great was the anxiety on the part of those whose 100 pounds a year, as they believed, mainly depended on the document in question. To be kept out of all that money, as the ever-ishest Moody had muttered to his friend Handy by an old fool saying that he can write his own name like his betters. Well, Job, said Handy, trying to impart his own sour, ill-oamened visage of a smile of approbation in which he greatly failed. So you're ready now. Mr. Finney says, here's the place, do you see? And he put his huge, brown finger down on the dirty paper. Name or mark is all one. Come along, old boy. If so, be where to have the spending of this money why the sooner the better, that's my maxim. To be sure, said Moody, we ain't none of us so young. We can't stay waiting for the old cat-cut no longer. It was thus these mixed-greens named our excellent friend. The nickname he could easily have forgiven, but the allusion to the divine source of all his melodious joy would have irritated even him. Let us hope he never knew the insult. Only think, old Billy Gazy, said Spriggs, who rejoiced in greater youth than his brethren, but having fallen into a fire when drunk, one eye burnt out, one cheek burnt through, and one arm nearly burnt off, and who therefore, in regard to personal appearance, was not the most prepossessing of men. A hundred a year and all to spend, only think, old Billy Gazy. And he gave a hideous grin that showed off his misfortunes to their full extent. Old Billy Gazy was not alive to much enthusiasm. Even these golden prospects did not arouse him to do more than rub his poor, old-bleared eyes with the cuff of his beadsman's gown and gently mutter, he didn't know, not he, he didn't know. But you'd know, Jonathan, continued Spriggs, turning to the other friend of Sculputs who was sitting on a stool by the table, gazing vacantly at the petition. Jonathan Crumple was a meek, mild man who had known better days. His means had been wasted by bad children who had made his life wretched and had been received into the hospital, of which he had not long been a member. Since that day he had known neither sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill him with new hopes was indeed a cruelty. A hundred a year's a nice thing for certain neighbor Spriggs, said he, I once had an eye to that myself, but it didn't do me no good. And he gave a low sigh as he thought of the children of his own loins who had robbed him. Then Joe, said Handy, and will have someone to keep it right and tight for you this time. Crumple sighed again. He had learned the impotency of worldly wealth and would have been satisfied if left untempted to have remained happy with one in six pence a day. Come, Sculput, repeated Handy, getting impatient. You're not going to go along with old buns and helping that person to rob us all. Take the pen, man, and write yourself. Well, he added, seeing that Sculput still doubted, to see a man is as afraid to stand by his selfish to my thinking the meanest thing as is. Sink them all for parson, says I, girl moody. Hungry beggars never thinks their bellies full they've robbed all and everything. Who's to harm you, man, argued Spriggs. Let them look never so black at you they can't get you put out when you're once in. I've got with calves to help him. I'm sorry to say the Archdeacon himself was designated by this scurrilous illusion to his nether person. A hundred a year to win and nothing to lose, continued Handy. My eyes! Well, how a man's to doubt about such a bit of cheese as that passes me, but some men is timorous, some men is born no pluckin'em, some men is coward at the very first sight of a gentleman's coat and waistcoat. I'm sorry, Mr. Harding, if you had but taken the Archdeacon's advice in that disputed case when Joe Mutters was this ungrateful demagogue's rival candidate. Afraid of a parson, girl moody, and with a look of ineffable scorn, I'd tell you what I'd be afraid of. I'd be afraid of not getting nothing from him but just what I could take by might and right. That's the most I'd be afraid on of any parson of them all. Mr. Harding's not so bad. He did give us tuppence a day, didn't he, now? Tuppence a day, exclaimed Spriggs with scorn, opening awfully the red cavern of his lost eye. Tuppence a day, muttered moody with a curse, sink his tuppence. Tuppence a day, exclaimed Handy, and I'm to go hat in hand and thank a chap for tuppence a day when he owes me a hundred pounds a year. No, thank you. That may do for you, but it won't for me. Come, I say, Scalpit, are you going to put your mark on this here paper or are you not? Scalpit looked round and wretched in decision to his two friends. What do you think, Bill Gazy, said he. But Bill Gazy couldn't think. He made a noise like the bleeding of an old sheep which was intended to express the agony of his doubt and again muttered that he didn't know. Take hold, you old cripple, said Handy, thrusting the pen into poor Billy's hand. There, so, you old fool, you've been and smeared it all. There, that'll do for you. That's as good as the best name as ever was written. And a big blotch of ink was presumed to represent Billy Gazy's acquiescence. Now, Jonathan, said Handy, turning to crumple. A hundred a years a nice thing for certain, again argued Crumple. Well, neighbor Scalpit, how's it to be? Oh, please yourself, said Scalpit, please yourself when you please me. The pen was thrust into Crumple's hand, and a faint wandering, meaningless sign was made, but tokening such sanction and authority as Jonathan Crumple was able to convey. Come, Job, said Handy, softened by success. Don't let him have to say that old Bunce has a man like you under his thumb. A man that always holds his head in the hospital as high as Bunce himself, though he cracks to drink wine and sneak into Eliza Butcher betters as he does. Scalpit held the pen and made little flourishes with it in the air, but still hesitated. And if you'll be said by me, continued Handy, you'll not write your name to it at all, but just put your mark like the others. The cloud began to clear from Scalpit's brow. We all know you can do it if you like, but maybe you wouldn't like to seem upish, you know. Well, the mark would be best, said Scalpit. One name and the rest marks wouldn't look well, would it? The worst in the world, said Handy. There, there. And stooping over the petition, the learned clerk made a huge cross on the place left for his signature. That's the game, said Handy, triumphantly pocketing the petition. We're all on a boat now, that is the nine of us, and as for Bunce and his cronies, they may but as he was hobbling off to the door with a crutch on one side and a stick on the other, he was met by Bunce himself. Well, Handy, and what may old Bunce do? said the grey-haired, upright senior. Handy muttered something and was departing, but he was stopped in the doorway by the huge frame of the newcomer. You've been doing no good here, Abel Handy, said he, just plain to see that, and tisn't much good I'm thinkin' you ever do. I mine my own business, Master Bunce, muttered the other, and you do the same, and ain't nothing to you what I does, and your spying and pokin' here won't do no good nor yet no harm. I suppose, then, Job continued Bunce, not noticing his opponent, if the truth must out, you've stuck your name to that petition and theirs at last. Scalp it looked as though he were about to sink into the ground with shame. What is it to you what he signs? said Handy. I suppose if we all want stacks for our own, we didn't actually have you first, Mr. Bunce, big a man as you are, and as to your sneakin' in here, in a Job's room when he's busy and when you're not wanted? I've known Job's Scalp it, man and boy, sixty years, said Bunce, looking at the man of whom he spoke. And that's ever since the day he was born. I knowed the mother that bore him, and when she and I were little wee things, picking daisies together in the clothes yonder, and I've lived under the same roof with him, more nor ten years, and after that I may come into his room without axe and leave, and yet no sneak in neither. So you can, Mr. Bunce, said Scalp it, so you can any hour, dear knight. And I'm free also to tell him my mind, continued Bunce, looking at the one man and addressing the other, and I tell him now that foolish and a wrong thing. He's turned his back upon one who is his best friend, and is playing the game of others, who care nothing for him, whether he be poor or rich, well or ill, alive or dead. A hundred a year? Are there a lot of you soft enough to think that if a hundred a year be taken be given, it's the likes of you that will get it? And he pointed to Billy Gazy, sprigs and crumple, did any of us ever do anything worth half the money? Was it to make gentlemen of us, we were brought in here, when all the world turned against us and we couldn't longer earn our daily bread? Ain't you always rich in your ways as he is in his? And the orator pointed to the side on which the warden lived. Ain't you getting all that you hoped for? Aye, and more than you hoped for, wouldn't each of you have given the dearest limb of his body to secure that which now makes you so unthankful? We want what John Hyrum left us, said Handy. We want what's earned by law. It doesn't matter what we expected. It's earned by law should be earned and by goals we'll have it. Law, said Bunce, with all the scorn he knew how to command. Law, did you ever know a poor man yet was the better for law or for a lawyer? Will Mr. Finney ever be as good to you, Job, as that man has been? Will he be to you when you're sick and comfort you when you're wretched? Will he? No, nor give you a port wine, old boy, on cold winter nights. He won't do that, will he? asked Handy, and laughing at the severity of his own wit, he and his colleagues retired, carrying with them, however, their now powerful petition. There is no help for spilt milk, and Mr. Bunce could only retire to his own room disgusted at the frailty of human nature. Mr. Bunce scratched his head. Jonathan Crumple again remarked that, for sartan, sure, a hundred year was very nice. And Billy Gasey again rubbed his eyes, and lowly muttered that he didn't know. End of Chapter 4. Recording by Jessica Louise, St. Paul, Minnesota. Chapter 5 of The Warden. This labor box recording is in the public domain. The Warden by Anthony Trollop. Dr. Grantley visits the hospital. Though doubt and hesitation disturbed the rest of our poor Warden, no such weakness perplexed the nobler breast of his son-in-law. As the indomitable cock preparing for the combat sharpens his spurs, shakes his feathers, and erects his comb, so did the arch-deacon arrange his weapons for the coming war without misgiving and without fear. That he was fully confident of the justice of his cause, let no one doubt. Many a man can fight his battle with good courage, but with a doubting conscience. Such was not the case with Dr. Grantley. He did not believe in the gospel with more assurance than he did in the sacred justice of all ecclesiastical revenues. When he put his shoulder to the wheel to defend the income of the present and future pre-centers of Barchester, he was animated by as strong a sense of a holy cause as that which gives courage to a missionary in Africa or enables a sister of mercy to give up the pleasures of the world for the wards of a hospital. He was about to defend the holy of holies from the touch of the profane to guard the citadel of his church from the most rampant of its enemies. To put on his good armor in the best of fights and secure if possible the comforts of his creed and dignitaries. Such a work required no ordinary vigor, and the Archdeacon was therefore extraordinarily vigorous. It demanded a buoyant courage and a heart happy in its toil, and the Archdeacon's heart was happy and his courage was buoyant. He knew that he would not be able to animate his father-in-law with feelings like his own, but this did not much disturb him. He preferred to bear the brunt and not doubt that the Warden would resign himself into his hands with passive submission. Well, Mr. Chadwick, he said, walking into the Steward's office a day or two after the signing of the petition as commemorated in the last chapter. Anything from Cox and Cummins this morning? Mr. Chadwick handed him a letter which he read stroking the tight-gatered calf of his right leg as he did so. Monsieur's Cox and Cummins yet received no notice from their adversaries that they could recommend no preliminary steps, but that should any proceeding really be taken by the beadsmen, it would be expedient to consult the very eminent Queen's Council, Sir Abraham Haphazard. I quite agree with them, said Dr. Grantley, refolding the letter. I perfectly agree with them. Haphazard is no doubt the best man, a thorough churchman, a sound conservative, respect the best man we could get. He's in the house too, which is a great thing. Mr. Chadwick quite agreed. You remember how completely he put down that scoundrel horseman about the Bishop of Beverly's income, how completely he set them all adrift in the Earl's case. Since the question of St. Cross had been mooted by the public, one noble-lord had become the Earl, par excellence in the doctor's estimation. He silenced that fellow at Rochester. Of course we must have Haphazard, and I'll tell you what, Mr. Chadwick, we must take care to be in time or the other party will forestall us. With all his admiration for Sir Abraham, the doctor seemed to think it not impossible that the great man might be induced to lend his gigantic powers to the side of the church's enemies. Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the doctor stepped down to the hospital to learn how matters were going on there, and as he walked across the hallowed clothes and looked up at the ravens who cod with a peculiar reverence as he wandered his way, he thought with increased acerbity of those whose impiety would venture to disturb the goodly grace of pathedral institutions. And who has not felt the same? We believe that Mr. horseman himself would relent, and the spirit of Sir Benjamin Hall giveaway were those great reformers to allow themselves to stroll by moonlight around the towers of some of our ancient churches. Who would not feel charity for a Prebendary when walking the quiet length of that long isle at Winchester, looking at those decent houses that trim grass-plat and feeling as one must the solemn, orderly comfort of the spot? Who could be hard upon a dean while wandering round the sweet clothes of Hereford and owing that in that precinct tone and color, design and form, solemn tower and storied window are all in unison and all perfect? Who could lie basking in the cloisters of Salisbury and gaze on Jewel's library and that unequaled spire without feeling that bishops should sometimes be rich? The tone of our Archdeacon's mind must not astonish us. It has been the growth of centuries of church ascendancy, and though some fungi now disfigured the tree, though there be much dead wood, for how much good fruit have we not to be thankful? Who, without remorse, can batter down the dead branches of an old oak now useless but still so beautiful, or drag out the fragments of the ancient forest without feeling that they sheltered the younger plants, to which they are now summoned to give way in a tone so peremptory and so harsh? The Archdeacon with all his virtues was not a man of delicate feeling, and after having made his morning salutations in the warden's drawing room he did not scruple to commence an attack on pestilent John Bold in the presence of Miss Harding, though he rightly guessed that the lady was not indifferent to the name of his enemy. Nellie, my dear, fetch me my spectacles from the back room, said her father, anxious to save both her blushes and her feelings. Eleanor brought the spectacles while her father was trying in ambiguous phrases to explain to her too practical brother-in-law that it might be as well not to say anything about Bold before her, and then retreated. Nothing had been explained to her about Bold in the hospital, but with a woman's instinct she knew that things were going wrong. We must soon be doing something, commenced the Archdeacon, wiping his brows with a large bright-colored handkerchief, for he had felt busy and had walked quick and it was a broiling summer's day. Of course you have heard of a petition. Mr. Harding owned somewhat unwillingly that he had heard of it. Well, the Archdeacon looked for some expressions of opinion, but none coming he continued. We must be doing something, you know, we mustn't allow these people to cut the ground from under us while we sit looking on. The Archdeacon, who was a practical man, allowed himself the use of everyday expressive modes of speech when among his closest intimates, though no one could soar into a more intricate labyrinth of refined phraseology when the church was the subject, and his lower brethren were his auditors. The Warden still looked mutely in his face, making the slightest possible passes with an imaginary fiddle-bow, and stopping as he did so sundry imaginary strings with the fingers of his other hand. Twas his constant consolation in conversational troubles. While these vexed him sorely, the passes would be short and slow, and the upper hand would not be seen to work, nay the strings on which it operated would sometimes lie concealed in the musician's pocket, and the instrument on which he played would be beneath his chair. But as his spirit warmed to the subject, as his trusting heart looked to the bottom of that which vexed him, would see its clear way out, he would rise to a higher melody, sweep the unseen strings with a bolder hand, and swiftly fingering the chords from his neck down along his waistcoat and up again to his very ear create an ecstatic strain of perfect music, audible to himself and to Saint Cecilia and not without effect. I quite agree with Cox and Cummins, continued to the Archdeacon, they say we must secure Sir Abraham haphazard. I shall not have the slightest fear in leaving the case in Sir Abraham's hands. The warden played the slowest and saddest of tunes. It was but a dirge on one string. I think Sir Abraham will not belong in letting Master Bold know what he's about. I fancy I hear Sir Abraham cross-questioning him at the common place. The warden thought of his income being thus discussed, his modest life, his daily habits and his easy work, and nothing issued from that single chord but a low wail of sorrow. I suppose they've sent his petition up to my father. The warden didn't know he imagined they would do so this very day. What I can't understand is how you let them do it, with such a man as you have in the place, or should have with such a man as Bunce, I cannot understand why you let them do it. Do what? asked the warden. Why, listen to this fellow bold and that other low pedophogre finny and get up this petition too. Why didn't you tell Bunce to destroy the petition? That would have been hardly wise, said the warden. Wise. Yes, it would have been very wise if they'd done it among themselves. I'll get to the place and answer it now, I suppose. It's a very short answer they'll get, I can tell you. But why shouldn't they petition, doctor? Why shouldn't they? responded the Archdeacon in a loud brazen voice, as though all the men in the hospital were expected to hear him through the walls. Why shouldn't they? I'll let them know why they shouldn't. By the by-warden, I'd like to say a few words to them all together. The warden's mind misgave him and even for a moment he forgot to play. He by no means wished to delegate to his son-in-law his place and authority of warden. He had expressly determined not to interfere in any step which the men might wish to take in the matter under dispute. He was most anxious neither to accuse them nor to defend himself. All these things he was aware the Archdeacon would do in his behalf and that not in the mildest manner and yet he knew not how to refuse the permission requested. I'd so much sooner rather remain quiet in the matter said he in an apologetic voice. Quiet! said the Archdeacon, still speaking with his brazen trumpet. Do you wish to be ruined and quiet? Why, if I'm to be ruined certainly. Nonsense, warden, I tell you something must be done. We must act. Just let me ring the bell send them in word that I'll speak to them in the quad. Mr. Harding knew not how to resist and the disagreeable order was given. The quad, as it was familiarly called, was a small quadrangle open on one side to the river and surrounded on the others by the high wall of Mr. Harding's garden, by one gable end of Mr. Harding's house and by the end of the row of buildings which formed the residences of the Badesmen. It was flagged all around and the center was stone. Small stone gutters ran from the four corners of the square to a grating in the center and attached to the end of Mr. Harding's house was a conduit with four cocks covered over from the weather at which the old men got their water and very generally performed their morning toilet. It was a quiet, somber place shaded over by the trees of the warden's garden. On the side towards the river there stood a row of stone seats on which the old men would sit and gaze at the little fish as they flitted by in the running stream. On the other side of the river was a rich green meadow running up to and joining the denary and as little open to the public as the garden of the dean itself. Nothing, therefore, could be more private than the quad of the hospital and it was there that the Archdeacon determined to convey to them his sense of their refractory proceedings. The servant soon brought in word that the men were assembled in the quad and the Archdeacon big with his purpose rose to address them. Well, warden, of course you're coming said he seeing that Mr. Harding did not prepare to follow him. I wish you'd excuse me said Mr. Harding for heaven's sake don't let us have division in the camp replied the Archdeacon let us have a long pull and a strong pull but above all a pull altogether come warden come don't be afraid of his duty. Mr. Harding was afraid he was afraid that he was being led to do that which was not his duty he was not however strong enough to resist so he got up and followed his son-in-law the old men were assembled in groups in the quadrangle eleven of them at least for poor old Johnny Bell was bedridden and couldn't come he had however put his mark to the petition as one of Handy's earliest followers. He could not move from the bed where he lay tis true he had no friend on earth but those whom the hospital contained and of those the warden and his daughter were the most constant and most appreciated tis true that everything was administered to him which his failing body could acquire or which his faint appetite could enjoy but still his dull eye had glistened for a moment at the idea of possessing a hundred pounds a year to his own cheek as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it and poor old Johnny Bell had greedily put his mark to the petition when the two clergymen appeared they all uncovered their heads Handy was slow to do it and hesitated but the black coat and waist coat of which he had spoken so irreverently in Sculptet's room had its effect even on him and he too doffed his hat Bunts, advancing before the others bowed lowly to the Archdeacon and with affectionate reverence expressed his wish that the warden and Miss Eleanor were quite well and the doctor's lady he added, turning to the Archdeacon and the children of Plumstead and My Lord and having made his speech he also retired among the others and took his place with the rest upon the stone benches as the Archdeacon stood up to make a speech erect in the middle of that little square he looked like an ecclesiastical statue placed there as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on earth his shovel hat, large, new and well pronounced, a churchman's hat in every inch declared the profession as plainly as does the Quaker's broad brim his heavy eyebrows, large open eyes and full mouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order the broad chest amply covered with fine cloth told how well to do was its estate one hand, esconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which our mother church keeps on her temporal possessions and the other, loose for action was ready to fight if need be in her defense and below these the decorous breeches and neat black gators showing so admirably that well turned leg betokened the decency, the outward beauty and grace of our church establishment now my men began when he had settled himself well in his position want to say a few words to you your good friend the warden here and myself and my lord the bishop on whose behalf I wish to speak to you would all be very sorry very sorry indeed that you should have any just ground of complaint any just ground of complaint on your part would be removed at once by the warden or by his lordship or by me on his behalf without the necessity of any petition on your part here the orator stopped for a moment expecting that some little murmurs of applause would show that the weakest of the men were beginning to give way but no such murmurs came Bunce himself even sat with closed lips, mute and unsatisfactory without the necessity of any petition at all he repeated I'm told you have addressed a petition to my lord he paused for a reply from the men and after a while handy plucked up the courage and said yes we has you have addressed a petition to my lord in which as I'm informed you express an opinion that you do not receive from Hyrum's estate all that is your do here most of the men expressed their assent now what is it you ask for what is it you want that you haven't got here what is it a hundred a year muttered moody with a voice as if it came out of the ground a hundred a year ejaculated the archdeacon militant defying the impudence of these claimants with one hand stretched out and closed while with the other he tightly grasped and secured within his breeches pocket that symbol of the church's wealth which his own loose half crowns not unapply represented a hundred a year why my men you must be mad and you talk about John Hyrum's will when John Hyrum built a hospital for worn out old men worn out old laboring men infirm old men past their work cripples blind bedridden and such like do you think he meant to make gentlemen of them do you think John Hyrum intended to give a hundred a year to old single men who earned perhaps two shillings or half a crown a day for themselves and families in the best of their time no my men I'll tell you what John Hyrum meant he meant that twelve poor old worn out laborers men who could no longer support themselves who had no friends to support them who must starve and perish miserably if not protected by the hand of charity he meant that twelve such men as these should come in here in their poverty and wretchedness and find within these walls shelter and food before their death and a little leisure to make their peace with God that was what John Hyrum meant you have not read John Hyrum's will and I doubt whether those wicked men who are advising you have done so I have I know what his will was and I tell you that that was his will and that that was his intention not a sound came from the eleven beads men as they sat listening to what according to the Archdeacon was their intended estate they grimly stared upon his burly figure but did not then express by word or sign the anger and disgust to which such language was sure to give rise now let me ask you he continued do you think you are worse off than John Hyrum intended to make you have you not shelter and food and leisure have you not much more have you not every indulgence which you are capable of enjoying have you not twice better food twice a better bed and ten times more money in your pocket than you were ever able to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get into this place and now you send a petition asking for a hundred pounds a year I tell you what my friends you are deluded and made fools of by wicked men who are acting for their own ends you will never get a hundred pence a year more than what you have now it is very possible that you may get less it is very possible that my lord the bishop and your warden may make changes no no no interrupted Mr. Harding who had been listening with indescribable misery at the tirade of his son-in-law no my friends I want no changes at least no changes that shall make you worse off than you are now as long as you and I live together God bless you Mr. Harding said Bunce and God bless you Mr. Harding God bless you sir we know you was always our friend was exclaimed by enough of the men to make it appear that the sentiment was general the Archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he had quite finished it but he felt that he could not with dignity after this little ebullition and he led the way back into the garden followed by his father-in-law well said he as soon as he found himself within the cool retreat of the warden's garden I think I spoke to them plainly and he wiped the perspiration from his brow for making a speech under a broiling midday sun in summer in a full suit of thick black cloth is warm work yes you were plain enough replied the warden in a tone which did not express approbation and that's everything said the other who was clearly well satisfied with himself that's everything with those sort of people one must be plain or one will not be understood now I think they did understand me I think they knew what I meant the warden agreed he certainly thought they had understood to the full what had been said to them they know pretty well what they have to expect from us they know how we shall meet any refractory spirit on their part they know that we're not afraid of them and now I'll just step into Chadwick's and tell him what I've done and then I'll go up to the palace and answer this petition of theirs the warden's mind was very full full nearly to overcharging itself and had it done so had he allowed himself to speak the thoughts that were working within him he would indeed have astonished the archdeacon by the reprobation he would have expressed as to the proceeding of which he had been so unwilling a witness but different feelings kept him silent he was as yet afraid of differing from his son-in-law he was anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblance of rupture with any of his order and was painfully fearful of having to come to an open quarrel with any person on any subject his life had hitherto been so quiet so free from strife his little early troubles had required nothing but passive fortitude his subsequent prosperity had never forced upon him any active cares had never brought him into disagreeable contact with anyone he felt that he would give almost anything much more than he knew he ought to do to relieve himself from the storm which he feared was coming it was so hard that the pleasant waters of his little stream should be disturbed and muddied by rough hands that his quiet paths should be made a battlefield that the unobtrusive corner of the world which had been allotted to him as though by providence should be invaded and desecrated and all within it made miserable and unsound money he had none to give the lack of putting guineas together had never belonged to him but how willingly with what a foolish easiness with what happy alacrity would he have abandoned the half of his income for all time to come could he by so doing have quietly dispelled the clouds that were gathering over him could he have thus compromised the matter between the reformer and the conservative between his possible son-in-law bold and his positive son-in-law the Archdeacon and this compromise would not have been made from any prudential motive of saving what would yet remain for Mr. Harding still felt little doubt but he should be left for life in quiet position of the good things he had if he chose to retain them no he would have done so from the sheer love of quiet and from a horror of being made the subject of public talk he had very often been moved to pity to that inward weeping of the heart for others woes but none had he ever pitied more than that old lord himself, drawn from his tritch preferments, had become the subject of so much a probium of such public scorn that wretched clerical octogenarian creases whom men would not allow to die in peace whom all the world united to decry and to abhor was he to suffer such a fate was his humble name to be bandied in men's mouths as the gormandizer of the resources of the poor as one who had filched from the charity of other ages wealth which had been intended to relieve the old and the infirm was he to be gibbeted in the press to become a byword for oppression to be named as an example of the greed of the English church should it ever be said that he had robbed those old men whom he so truly and so tenderly loved in his heart of hearts as he slowly paced hour after hour under those noble lime trees turning these sad thoughts within him he became all but fixed in his resolve that some great step must be taken to relieve him from the risk of so terrible of fate in the meanwhile the archdeacon with contented mind and unruffled spirit went about his business he said a word or two to Mr. Chadwick and then finding as he expected the petition lying in his father's library he wrote a short answer to the men in which he told them that they had no evils to redress but rather great mercies for which to be thankful and having seen the bishop sign it he got into his brigham and returned home to Mrs. Grantley and Plumstead Episcopie End of Chapter 5 Recording by Jessica Louise St. Paul, Minnesota